The Blood Countess
by Ryoushi05
Summary: During the war somethings that are lost can never be regained. In this dark romance between Hermione and Draco, and Hermione is the darkest of the two evils. The once bookish protagonist has turned into something even more evil than Voldemort himself.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Blood Countess

Author: Ryoushi

Category: General, Drama, eventual Romance. Pairings: HG x SS or DM

Rating: M

Warnings: Tons of characters die. Hermione is evil. This is post HBP.

Notes: This story idea really just popped into my head while in the middle of class. There really are not enough dark Hermione fictions out there. This is pretty much the prelude. If you are really eager to know where this is going Hermione will be a Death Eater hunting after whomever she chooses. The next chapter will explain why she went over to the dark side. There will probably be hints at a relationship with Snape and/or Draco. The Snape I got pegged, but to blossom this into a full romance, still need to hash out the annoying little details.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but I wish I did.

The rain pelted down her skin, but short of actual piercing hail nothing would keep Hermione Granger inside tonight. Injuries only prevented doing work… finishing the mission. The rain suited her; after all, after tonight she would need it to clean away her sins. It was around one a.m. and she was lingering behind in an alley, waiting for her targets to appear.

The night was sleepless, restless almost. The air was saturated with moistness, not from the rain but from the mists that blew through the rain. The way the rain was falling, nothing looked wet and cold. Everything looked like it was moving and alive. The buildings were dancing in their solid foundations, and the street was a wild stream that looked like a brook after a spring thaw.

Hermione just stood there, still and waiting… patience is a virtue. She began to work through potion ingredients. Anything to keep herself awake and alert; her skin felt soaked through to the bones and all she really wanted was for the mission to be over. She could be home sleeping if only her targets would leave the safety of the muggle London pub. Hermione began to wonder if her body temperature dropped enough to make her susceptible to hypothermia. Standing in the middle of a frozen March rain was not her idea of proactive health.

How much longer would they be? How much Guinness could they wash drown their grimy throats? Being judgmental now would only make Hermione loose her focus. She would need her wits, her strength. Finally the couple that was targeted emerged from the stairs that led down to the slimy pub.

Harry was stumbling, holding onto Ginny so that he would not fall down and crack his scarred skull on the sidewalk curb. Ginny was giggling a slight drunken giggle. It never really ended. It was just there beneath her words, chiding Harry for drinking so much and loosing all their muggle money at the hoarse races earlier. Hermione began to wonder: how could they live with such stupid grins on their smug alive faces? How can they be happy when so many have died so they can drink and bet on birthdays? Is this what the sacrificed have died for?

It was time for an award winning performance. Hermione put her hood of her cloak up. She took out her wand. She pointed it at her own leg and whispered a sparks curse straight through her robes onto her calf. The robes burned, and her flesh would be scarred until she could rub some balms on it. The muscles glimmered and it looked like some fiery flesh eating virus was gnawing its way through her muscles and tendons. She began crying real tears. Physical pain is a small price to pay.

Hermione stumbled out of the ally. She fell down on purpose in the gutter. She began to weakly get up when she heard their drunken voices, "Oy you all right over there?" It was Harry. Even drunk he wanted to pretend he could save everyone in the world. Hermione clung to a lamp post to look weaker than she was. This time it was Ginny who piped up, "Did you break something in that tumble?" Good they were getting closer. They could hear Hermione's fake labored breathing. Deep gulps of shaky panting.

"I'm ok; you should go on your way." Hermione pulled herself from the gutter and began limping along. She got about three cars away, staggered, and feigned fainting. She heard steps sloshing near her through the river that was once a street.

"Ginny, I don't think this lady is ok." Harry reached out and touched the hooded figure. "Oh my god, her leg... her face…" He could see the blood mixing with the rain. A steady shadow of its dark color streaming beyond the cloak into the water. Blood is always black in the night. Never red, never colorful. Just black and slow moving, as if it was the life force leaving the body; in the cases Harry had seen blood at night, it always meant death. "She's bleeding Ginny, get over here."

Harry rolled Hermione over. At first he did not recognize her due to the mass of long brown hair covering her rain soaked face. The hair was so thick; he began brushing it away while elevating her head. He almost dropped Hermione when he realized it was her. "Ginny…" His voice was weak. Hermione took the opportune moment to flutter her eyes to a faked awakening. Hermione made a guttural sound, which was not faked. The hex was beginning to burn too much.

"Am I dead?" Hermione's voice sounded even more weak and distant than she had intended it to be. She looked up into Harry's green eyes. How could she have even gotten this close? Harry you stupid boy. The scared undertone to her voice had worked.

"No Hermione, you're not dead." Harry buried his head in her shoulder. "Ginny, call for an ambulance or something."

Ginny was frozen in her tracks a few steps from Harry cuddling his long lost child hood friend. She was silent. Afraid and Shocked. She looked so distrusting. Hermione silently yelled, how could you not be anxious to see me after three years you ungrateful little wench? "No, we should call an Auror."

Harry just gaped at Ginny. He could not believe he was hearing his wife correctly. "Ginny, she's on the run. Look at her. They've torn her to shreds." Hermione did look pretty bad. She had taken a potion that deliberately looked like she had been married to an abusive alcoholic for the last six months. The blackened eye and scar tissue running down the nape of the neck is what probably made Harry's heart explode. That and the alcohol. If only he had been sober, he would have had a clearer mind. Ginny did.

"The Aurors deal with death eaters Harry. We need to call them." Hermione still had her wand in her hand. Harry never even saw the movement. All he heard was the words.

"Accio wands." Both Harry and Ginny's wands zoomed from their pockets. Too drunk to even manage the simple silent counter spell Hermione tsked. She stood up on her own violation. "Harry don't you know every good man has a woman behind him." He stared at Hermione in shock like he had never seen her, or worse like she had grown a third eye. The look was beginning to look like one of horror as he realized what was happening. "Will you ever be a good man again Harry?" Hermione snapped the wands with one hand, and raised her wand hand towards Ginny who was smart enough to attempt to run.

"AVADA KADVRA." The green light shot out from Hermione's wand. The light enveloped and attacked Ginny, and before her body splashed into the gutter she was long dead. Hermione felt the after shock of the curse. The killing curse always hurt the witch or wizard a little. It required raw power to completely stop the life force of any being. But when you have killed as many people as Hermione Granger had in the last three years, power was something that almost needed to be shed.

Harry dropped to the water. He did not run towards Ginny. Shock does that. It keeps your body from moving, it keeps time from ticking, everything stops in that muted moment right before the body shuts down. For Harry though, the shock was common. Even seeing his wife knocked down by the killing curse was not so exceptional. Only Hermione had dodged the curse, everyone else the boy knew and loved had died by the same curse. Parents, friends, teachers, and now wife. "What have you done Hermione?"

The voice was vacant, almost as vacant as the dull green eyes that looked up at her. Less than a few minutes ago he had been a cheerfully happy drunken twenty five year old celebrating Ginny's birthday. Now Harry Potter had transformed into a living ghoul. His skin had changed textures and colors; it looked like the flesh of the animated dead, completely gray under the street light. His hair clung to his face in wet knots, and the eyes were empty. It was like Harry finally realized that he could only bring death to everyone he knew. "I've fulfilled one of many promises Harry."

Hermione began to slosh back to the alley; she needed some place dark to apparate. She already killed in public with a spell; although, most drunk muggles would not remember the facts tomorrow morning anyways, no memory charms needed for the good old fashioned hangover. Still unnecessary risks where unnecessary. Harry groaned, "Aren't you going to kill me too?"

Hermione's brown eyes had turned charcoal black some months past after a poor encounter with a dark magic relic. She tilted her ebony eyes down towards Harry, "You are not allowed to die Harry. You have to feel this pain. You have to know what it is like to walk the world alone. It's your karmic fate for killing Ron. You left me lost, and now I return the favor. Remember that Voldermort's presence means no one is safe." She felt a flicker of pain. The memories of her past quickly flashed between her eyes into her brain. She blinked them away, focus. The mission is complete. "Harry, I wish you were stronger. The world will be safer when you kill me." With that, Hermione disappeared into the alley leaving behind the boy who lived a life no one wanted to live.


	2. Chapter 2

I dont own harry potter... yet. If JK puts him on ebay, he's mine!

Chapter One

Waking up there was only darkness. When, correction, if you ever survive any kind of torture you will realize what I already have. At night there is always some kind of illumination in the comfort of your own home. During the middle of the night you could wake up and your eyes would adjust to the darkness because there would be light from the moon, the streetlight on the corner, nightlights with cute moon shaped shades.

Something, anything. There is always a source of light when you are safe.

In a dungeon, with a concussion, you only see things in stark contrasts. You keep waiting for the light to adjust and it doesn't. If anyone saw you blinking like an idiot during those first few seconds you would be humiliated, but then you realize that this kind of darkness is pitch.

It does not matter who you are, good or evil, that kind of darkness is never comforting.

You are not in control, and the darkness affirms your lack of power over self.

The head blow itself will reinforce this sinking feeling. Your body doesn't feel quiet alive, but since you are moving you think you are not dead. The darkness will not confirm nor deny the possibility of death so that sinking feeling slowly forms into panic.

The silence never helps. Dungeons are always silent. They are the holding cells while darker atrocities are committed elsewhere. Places where drainage systems can be used to wash away blood. Places where no one can hear the screams of victims. Simply elsewhere.

Self perseveration is the first instinct. You feel so helpless that you automatically try to regain control. Its funny how everything in life can change, but instinct always remains.

I touched my scalp first. I will always remember I did not scream. I did not attempt to run away. I did not cry. I merely began assessing damage; maybe all the battles I had survived had trained me. Maybe all the battles I had survived merely turned me into a waiting sociopath. Someone waiting for something to send me over the edge. I'd like to think until the rest of that night unfolded, I was still hopeful. Still innocent.

Blood, when dried in hair, feels more like mud. It's got this very crusty sandy texture. At first you would think you just fell asleep on a beach, but then chunks of the flaky copper substance sticks to your fingers. It never really quiet dries completely if you have thick hair.

I wondered if that's where the death eaters and other racists got the idea for mud-blood. Maybe they knew what their torture would feel like. It's unlikely, it's too deep a thought. Word connections and slang are never that deep. It is eerie how the nick-name reminds me exactly how my wounds felt after the physical torture.

Maybe I was insane then, thinking so calmly.

However, that undercurrent of panic explodes when the world becomes real enough to smell and feel. The stones beneath you are rough all the sudden and something smells of decayed food. You would say it was rotting flesh, but if you say that, then the image frightens you. So for that moment, the scent you smell in its fetid disgustingness is old pizza or rotten apples. It's something inanimate, something that has never been alive.

At that moment, panic cackles through your body like lightning.

Where's Ron? Where's Harry? Now there is something beyond instinct and comforting your psyche. You know you are alive for sure. Now you want to speak, but if you speak… if you scream and no one responds from the silent darkness… now you have only confirmed you are alone in this hell.

If you are lucky, you will have lost enough blood or received enough shock that you will pass out from the emotional stimuli. At that moment, you are not strong enough to survive. You are not strong enough to face real terror and real evil.

Now I wake up and it is cold. There is fresh air; the smell that awakes with me is earthy, not rancid. I am lying on grass, and I am not alone out here. I see the feet and hems of cloaks of people I assume are death eaters. I know where I am finally.

I've been captured for at least two weeks. I've been raped, beaten, and starved in the manor house of one of the death eaters. Reality is flooding in. Focus on the moment and stay alive becomes the mantra you live by.

This moment: my vision is too blurry to be of any real use. God I am so thirsty. When I did get to the hospital the doctors would have me on an IV for three weeks. Apparently when dehydrated you can suffer from diarrhea and lose substantial weight. I had wasted away that's why I was weak. At least, that's the justification I would give to myself later.

"Good evening Miss Granger" I don't need to look up to know that the voice is Voldemort's. I must be at a dark reveal. He wouldn't sully himself with the mere torture of unimportant mud bloods. Why was I here?

Voices float over me and I know that the long speeches were intended for his followers. I could not help but tune them out. I was so thirsty, so tired, so weak when it comes down to it. There are tones that change when they change topics. Dark quiet angry tones and light warm glorified tones. He talked to them the way a master would its dog.

"Miss Granger, I believe my friends have something to show you."

I still didn't move. Moving required power, and I was drained. Hands grab me from all over and jerk me up. The movement does not hurt because of their grip or ferocity; it hurt because any movement – period… simply just hurt. They grabbed me by the wrists and the hair and the hips, like some kind of animal.

Someone jerked my head in the direction they wanted me to look. I barely had enough moisture in my eyes to blink, let alone see. But then I saw it. Saw him.

Ron, my husband of little over eight months… my childhood friend for little over eight years, was hanging limply by his hands. Now I suddenly knew why six hands were clasped so tightly around me.

Ronald Weasley now looked like a human pin cushion, minus the pins. The ministry's report would read that a double edged blade of some thirty inches or better had stabbed him over 67 times if you didn't count the outside lacerations that happened before the fatale wounds were inflected. He had not bled to death before the wounds were inflicted. What I saw was not the report.

I saw a man I loved barely have enough flesh to cover his body, and what flesh remained was blood soaked. In all reality, looking back I think now that it wasn't his body that made me realize it was him, it was the hair.

His hair was undamaged. It was still long, clean, flowing; like the rest of his body had not been mutilated. It was like he just stepped out of bed, flaming red and slightly tousled.

To say I exploded would be the understatement of the century.

There's a funny thing about pure untarnished rage: you no longer feel. All the pain, fear, self perseveration, fuzzy vision, weakness… all of it just disappears. It crashes out of your body through your feet and out into the ground. I know I began screaming incoherently.

"Calm down Miss Granger or you will meet the same fate."

The things you think of when in full rage are never quite linked properly.

Afterwards you can see the connections, but when in that moment you are not focusing. You are not paying attention to the links. You are merely acting. The way an animal acts.

First I was hit with the emotional pain, that's right I never took his name. I never sacrificed that strength – NO! That pride, to make him happy. I know later I had that thought because somewhere I realized I would never have the opportunity to have major blow outs with Ron again.

Deafness suddenly increased while the anger washed over me. My skin prickled from this new silence, this deadly silence, that I controlled. Silence was needed to focus, focus on energy. No wand, but raw energy would do.

Magical strength tenfolds.

Before I couldn't move and did not want to feel; now I was nothing but complete innate feeling. I felt the ground, the miles of roots that extended from every stem of grass, tree, and flower. I felt the tides of the rivers reaching out to the waving sea. I could feel animals sense me. Sense the magic I was awakening. The old magic of the night, the dark magic that fuels your soul. This was the stuff that legends are written about. It washes over your body like a cool wave of unseen blood or water… some invisible tasteless scentless substance.

The hands holding me were suddenly gone. All of those death eaters were dead. No words. No wands. Just the desire for them to be dead. The kind of magic I summoned needed a release. It needed to leave my body before it exploded through my skin. I see others, and they collapse to the ground and ignite into flames.

One death eater summons some kind of pathetic water charm. He attempts to put out his comrade, but instead the water fuels the fire and the victim… my victim burns brighter. Harry is screaming, "Hermione stop! This isn't what he wants. STOP!" A wave of my hand and the channeled power silences him. The ministry files said that Harry was mute for three months.

Some female idiot attempts to physically charge me. Before she can even lay a hand on me she stops mid step under my control. I stalk up to her and rip the robes off her body. I put my hands on either side of her temples. I let her memories wash over me. Personally if I ever attempted legilimency I doubt I could actually control what I would have seen. This power knew how to work. It knew what I needed.

I tucked her thoughts deep inside of me. And then I pulled her liver from her. In the gaping hole I squeezed the liver until its bile seeped back into her insides as she lay crumpled at my feet. The bile within the liver is one of the most toxic substances known to man kind. If you ever got stabbed in the liver you would die from its poison before any internal bleeding ever did you in.

The irony of my actions hits me. While I killed minions, their master was given the opportunity to escape. Who knew that the all and powerful dark lord would scamper away from me? Looking back on all these years, I wonder if killing him would have really prevented me from the path I took.

"Harry we're going." He darts off to save his best friend's corpse. He is always the champion of the dead, and yet the hero of the light.

I hear something whisper behind my ear, "You won't find solace Miss Granger."

We apparate from the marsh. I pass out and wake up four months later in St. Mungos. I was expecting to be charmed to the bed. But when you murder murderers you become a savior.

All I felt, and I would continue to feel was the emptiness only a monster could possess.

Sometimes I wish I had never woken up to this destroyed world.


End file.
